The Smell of Blood on the First Four Knuckles
by sailormade
Summary: All that Ray Perry could do while Trent tried to rig what little they had left into something useful was hold steady pressure on the gunshot wound that had obliterated the right side of Clay's collarbone. Quietly, he prayed for a miracle ... Just like the world outside, God was quiet. / A spin-up in Taliban Country goes sideways.
1. PROLOGUE

**A/N: **Hi angels! Don't worry, I'm still working on Margins Of Error (like I said, I have a ton of plans for it), but I wanted to try my hand at something a little more action-packed too. I'll be updating both of these stories simultaneously—which, ironically enough, usually leads to faster updates and more muse, lol. So, let me know what you guys think! Oh, and this story is set six months after the end of s1e22, "The Cost of Doing Business," but before s2e1, "Fracture." . . .better story summary coming soon too, lmao.

* * *

_What would you like? I'd like my money's worth. Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this: swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. We pull our boots on with both hands but we can't punch ourselves awake and all I can do is stand on the curb and say, "Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine." _— Richard Siken, Little Beast.

**0\. ****THE ELEVENTH HOUR. ****( **_PROLOGUE._** )**

There was nothing left to do but wait for Clay's heart to stop beating.

Ray Perry didn't want to listen when Trent told him that every avenue of treatment had been exhausted, but the evidence of such was strewn all around them: five packages worth of soiled gauze, two empty blood transfusion bags, six empty morphine injectors. . . _Out of gauze. Out of transfusable blood. Out of morphine. _The reality of their situation was a grim one, no doubt; grim, gritty, and toeing the line of hopeless.

All that Ray could do while Trent tried to rig what little they had left into something useful was hold steady pressure on the gunshot wound that had obliterated the right side of Clay's collarbone. Quietly, he prayed for a miracle._ He begged God for Clay's life._ He prayed and prayed and prayed again once more.

"It's okay, brother," Ray said for the fifth time in as many minutes. "I'm here. I've got you. _I've got you._"

Clay blinked up at him with wide, glassy eyes. He was distressed, disoriented, heaving for breath as he bled out between Ray's fingers—

And Ray couldn't do a damn thing to stop it, or even so much as lessen Clay's discomfort. Neither could Trent; Trent Sawyer, who served his country as a Independent Duty Corpsman before reenlisting as a SEAL. If he couldn't keep Clay alive long enough to reach Exfil, then no one short of God could.

Ray tried not to give thought to the astronomical world of pain that Clay Spencer must be in.

"Clay? Can you hear me, bud?" Trent asked.

Clay nodded minutely, just enough to convey that he could.

Ray listened intently as Trent asked, "Does your head hurt? Like a migraine?"

Clay nodded again. Ray swore he could've seen Trent's face pale.

"What's goin' on, Trent?" He asked.

Trent sighed heavily and, after quieting his voice to a whisper, said, "Aside from the GSW, we could be looking at heat stroke. His skin is on fire but it's dry, he's not sweating at all, and he's clearly having some pretty extreme shortness of breath. And psychologically, he's just. . . a little too out of it for my liking. But, ya' know, he just got shot real fucking close to the head so, aside from the lack of sweat and the overheating, his other symptoms—headache, rapid heart rate, breathing trouble, disorientation—could all be related to his GSW, anxiety and blood loss included. I just. . . I don't know, Ray. He needs a hospital. And to get out of this godforsaken heat."

"Okay, okay," Ray said. '_Minimize the damage,'_ He thought. They have to prepare for the absolute worst and minimize whatever damage may come of it. "Heatstroke. What happens if it's heatstroke?"

"Worst case?" Trent said. "His core temperature spikes to over 104 degrees, cooks him from the inside out, he starts convulsing—which would triple the rate that he's losing blood, and his heart rate would plummet. If by some immeasurable miracle Clay manages to survive all of that, he'd likely have severe brain damage."

He paused. "I don't know what else to do. I've done everything in our power. It's up to the rest of Bravo now."

"Um. . . His gear," Ray said. He knew that he was grasping at straws, that his suggestion was as paper-thin as they came, but it was better than nothing. Anything was, at that point. "What if we take his gear off? Helmet, vest, everything. Would that cool him down any?"

Trent shook his head. "Not enough to justify the risk of moving him. He's still bleeding pretty badly, not to mention all of the shattered bones where his collarbone used to be. Oh, and speaking of bleeding, you need me to tag you out yet?"

"Nah, I got him."

Truth be told, the muscles in Ray's arms were so fatigued that they were beginning to quiver, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Clay's side to allow Trent take over. He told Clay that he had him, that he was there for him—and by God, Ray did and he was. He wouldn't switch places with Trent until he absolutely had to.

"Ray?" Clay asked.

"Tell Stella. . . that m'sorry for being. . . such a dick. S'kind of my default setting. And tell. . . Jay, thanks. Wish it coulda'. . . been different. Better. S'not on him. He's. . . good."

"Hey, hey. None of that." Ray said vehemently. "You're fine. You're gonna' be fine, Spencer. Trent is real good at what he does. IDC, remember?"

Clay shook his head. "Not likely. _Listen. _Want you and Sonny to know. . . how much I love you guys. M'brothers, okay? Real brothers. N'Trent? I know you're doin'. . . Your best. No hard feelings. Love you too, man. And. . . Brock. And that. . . damn dog. Fucking slobbering all over. . . everything. It's okay. This. . . me? Dead? S'okay. It's okay. Know what I signed up for."

"Tell them yourself." Trent said, voice sharp. _Desperate._

Ray hoped that Clay couldn't see through the faux nature of Trent's bravado.

"Ray's right. You're gonna' be fine," He continued. "As soon as Cerb picks up our scent, they'll find us and they'll get us out of here. But right now you've got to hang on, Clay. Do you understand? Hang. On."

Clay nodded. "Doin' my best, doc."

Ray squeezed his eyes shut, exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, and began to mutter: _'Please God, please, don't let this be the end. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. . . He's just a kid. Just a damn kid. Please, Father, don't take him before he hits thirty. He's got so much more to do.'_

Outside the thickly packed dirt walls they were trapped within, it was quiet: No gunfire. No explosions. No telltale baying from Cerberus, signaling that he's caught their scent. Nothing. Radio silence.

_'Where are you guys?' _Ray thought, not without a hint of guilt-laced ire. _'C'mon Jay, bust through the damn door. Get us the hell out of here.' _

The sound of Trent's voice pulled Ray from his thoughts.

"So, how much daylight you reckon we have left?"

"Not much," Ray replied. "Maybe an hour, hour and a half at most. What's our plan when we're in total darkness?"

"We pray." Trent said, dejected. "We hold our positions, keep Spencer from bleeding out the best we can, and we pray."

_'I've been praying this entire time.' _Ray doesn't say, because despite his relentless prayers, his heartfelt begging, his genuine offers of sacrifice. . . there was nothing. Just like the world outside, God was quiet.

"Ray?" Clay asked.

His voice was quieter. _Breathier._ It chilled Ray down to the marrow of his bones.

"Hmm?"

"I like. . . Allison, for a girl." Clay said. "Or Elena, maybe. Dainty, feminine. . . but strong."

Tears stung Ray's eyes. "I like Allison too. Allie, for short."

"I'm votin' for Elena," Trent said with a sad little smile. "What about for a boy?"

Silence.

"Clay? Hey, Spencer?" Trent leaned over Clay's body, careful not to jostle Ray, and gently tapped his cheek. "Hey, Clay, baby names. For a boy. I wanna' hear your suggestions. C'mon, bud. Don't do this."

Clay remained quiet—eyes half open, breath growing deeper and more sporadic by the second, consciousness slipping away. A tear dripped down Ray's cheek.

"Trent," He said. "Tag me out, man. I gotta' have a break. I gotta'—"

"I got you," Trent replied, moving to take Ray's place. "Sit back, catch your breath. Get yourself right."

They switched effortlessly. While Trent held pressure on Clay's gunshot wound and monitored his breathing by sight alone, something he wouldn't be able to do once darkness fell, Ray sat back on his haunches and willed himself not to cry. Should he try to pray again? It felt pointless to do so. But what if this were a test of his faith? What if chose to give up on God, and in turn God gave up on them? On Clay? That wasn't a chance Ray was willing to take.

With tears burning his eyes still, Ray Perry closed his eyes and prayed.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

**1\. DOUBLE STUFFED. (** _CHAPTER ONE._ **)**

_Two Months Previous._

"_No,_ Uncle Clay, you have to wear the_ purple_ tiara."

Clay couldn't help but laugh at the exasperation in Jameelah Perry's voice. She, the reigning Queen of their Barbie and Build-A-Bear Kingdom, diligently adjusted the purple Sleeping Beauty tiara resting atop his head. Everything had to be "just so," as she so eloquently put it.

"Well, why can't I have the green one?" Clay asked. "That's my favorite color."

"Because," Jameelah said matter-of-factly. "The purple tiara has_ blue gems_ on it and the blue gems match your eyes. _I_ have to wear to the green one cause' the green one matches my slippers. Rayray doesn't get one cause' he's the butler."

Pretending to be offended, Clay gasped. "The_ butler?_ Don't you think that's a little harsh? He's your brother."

Nestled comfortably in Clay's lap, Raymond Jr. stuck his own bare foot in his mouth, completely unfazed.

"I think we should make your Uncle Sonny be the butler." He offered. "He can bring us snacks."

Jameelah' eyes lit up. "Oreos?"

Clay grinned. "Oh yeah. Double stuffed. And we won't let him have any."

_'Double Stuffed'_ seemed to be a set of magic words, because ten minutes later Clay Spencer found himself in the Perry's kitchen—still clad in his blue jeans, Sleeping Beauty tiara, work boots, vibrant purple cape, black henley, and arm full of temporary Disney tattoos—with Jameelah sitting high and mighty on his shoulders, and Raymond Jr. hoisted on his hip. Jameelah insisted that they couldn't wait on Sonny Quinn to finish talking to Lisa to get the Oreos; She needed a handful of cookies _immediately_ for the greater good of their kingdom. She only had to bat her big brown doe eyes at Clay once before he was completely incapable of telling her no. He couldn't begin to imagine how Naima did it.

He couldn't imagine how Naima did a lot of things, namely being the wife of a Tier One Operator.

For a brief moment, Clay's thoughts drifted to his girlfriend, Stella, and the vicious argument they'd had the night before, but Raymond Jr. began to fuss and quickly redirected his attention.

As if on queue, Naima Perry walked into the kitchen, looking effortlessly lovely in a long, white sundress. She had her dark hair braided to side, just like her daughter. To her left was Sonny, holding an armful of dirty dishes and wearing a shit-eating grin.

"Well, well, well," Sonny drawled in a thick Texan accent. "If it isn't Prince Charming himself. You were born to wear a crown, Spencer."

"Tiara." Jameelah corrected.

She took a bite out of her fourth Oreo of the evening.

"I think you look very dashing, Clay," Naima said with a laugh, taking Raymond Jr. from him. "And I hate to break up the princess party, but now that everyone has gone home, it's Queen Jameelah's bath time."

"Mom," She protested, wrapping her arms around Clay's head. "Me and Uncle Clay still have to pick his coronation flowers! He's getting promoted to King! Mom!"

_Uncle Clay._ The endearment still sounded. . . foreign. . . to Clay's ears, though it warmed his heart just as much as it surprised him, and he welcomed the affection. He hadn't been to Ray Perry's house all that often, just six or seven times in the span of the last few months, but Ray's babies, Jameelah and Raymond Jr., had taken to him like a sailor to a mid-deployment swim call—enthusiastically. After two or three post spin-up cookouts, Jameelah had christened him 'Uncle Clay' and gifted him with one of her favorite My Little Pony stickers.

"Your mom has a point, Your Majesty," Clay said, kneeling down so Jameelah could safely climb down off of his shoulders. "Queens have to be clean if they want their subjects to take them seriously. That means you have to take a bath. We'll pick flowers next time, okay?"

Once she had her slippers on the floor, Jameelah narrowed her eyes at him. "Promise?"

Clay nodded. "Promise. I work with your dad, remember? We're Navy guys, and Navy guys can't lie to the Queen."

With a heavy sigh, Jameelah agreed and bid Clay farewell with a hug. While Naima walked away with her children, Sonny set the dirty dishes in the sink and joined Clay by the cupboard. He plucked the tiara off of Clay's head and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it.

"Sleeping Beauty, huh?"

Clay snatched the tiara back. "Hey, in my defense, I tried to barter for the green Little Mermaid one. As you can see, I didn't win."

Sonny chuckled, but his demeanor deflated as soon as Naima was out of the room. It made Clay anxious, set his teeth a little too close to the edge to consider ignoring the uncharacteristic change in his fellow teammate's attitude. Clay set Jameelah's tiara on the table, followed by her cape, and proceeded to lean against the counter.

"So," He began, folding his arms across his chest. "You gonna' tell me what's up, Sonny?"

Sonny glanced around, wary, before fixing his attention on Clay. "If I tell you somethin', do you promise it won't leave this kitchen? Or your mouth?"

Clay nodded. "Yeah, man. Of course."

"Did you see Jason and Ray earlier?" Sonny asked.

"During the cookout? Yeah. They were just talking, from what I could tell. Seemed like they were having a good time. Why? Did I miss something?"

"They were _small talking,_ Spencer. About. . . the kids, and the weather, and Green Team, and shit like that. It was weird."

Clay lifted a brow. "Weird. . . how?"

"Because it's not _them._ Those two have been best buddies since before you were old enough to enlist, and best buddies don't small talk and chitchat about the weather. Jay's still pissed at Ray about the whole shoulder thing. _I can feel it._ It's icier than the Himalayas in the middle of winter out there."

Sonny seemed legitimately concerned, but Clay's views on the situation didn't align with Sonny's in the least. Nor would they ever. He understood exactly how Jason was feeling—he was Ash Spencer's kid, after all—and he believed that Jason had every right to be furious with Ray. Clay could understood why Ray lied, why he did what he did while on deployment, and he didn't hold that against him—but at the end of the day. . . Ray lied to his Team Leader and an innocent child died as a result.

Now that the issue regarding Ray Perry was fresh in his mind, Clay couldn't help but feel a little angry too.

"I get where you're coming from, I do, but. . . Do you blame Jay for being icy? I love Ray, you know I do, but he lied, Sonny. And a kid died because of it. What if had been Jameelah in that blast? Or, God forbid, little Ray? Naima, even?"

The expression on Sonny's face was one that toed the line of wounded. It was a gruesome, unimaginable thought, but what about the family of the child who'd been killed? The thought of burying their child was surely a gruesome, unimaginable notion once, too, and yet that was exactly what they had to do._ Because of Ray._

"I get what Jason is feeling right now. And it hurts, okay? The dishonesty and the sneaking around? It guts you like a damn trout. Give Jason some time to lick his wounds, and give Ray a chance to earn back his trust. They're gonna' get through this, it's just gonna' take time."

Sonny was quiet. Clay wasn't sure how to read the pensive look on his face, and he wasn't sure if he'd overstepped or not, but he didn't regret saying his piece. Jason Hayes deserved at least one person on his side. He was a damn good Operator, and a damn good man.

"Suppose' you have a point or two, Goldilocks." Sonny said in a resigned tone. "Don't like it, though. This whole clusterfuck is givin' me the heebie jeebies."

"I know, buddy. Me too. But, hey, at least Ray's off Green Team. If Jay were that pissed, he could've kept him teaching after he finished rehab."

Sonny nodded in something akin to agreement, and the kitchen fell quiet. There wasn't anything left to say regarding Bravo One and Bravo Six. And God, wasn't that strange to say? Petty Officer Ray Perry, demoted to Bravo Six. As grateful as Clay was to have taken Ray's place as Bravo Two, he felt guilty about it, too. Ray deserved his 2IC badge.

_'But I deserve it, too.'_ Clay thought. _'I work just as hard, and I didn't lie to my Master Chief. I didn't inadvertently kill a child. He brought this on himself.'_

"So," Sonny began. He cleared his throat. "Brock may or may not have mentioned that you and Stella got into a lil' bit of a verbal brawl last night."

Clay groaned. "Brock and his big mouth. . . Yeah, me and Stella got into it. Nothing new."

Sonny waggled his eyebrows. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Definitely wouldn't call it paradise, brother. More like limbo. Or the first level of Hell, depending on the hour."

Sonny laughed, but before he could say something witty, his phone dinged, signaling a text message. Within seconds, Clay's phone dinged as well, and no doubt the rest of the team's too.

It was official: For the first since the helicopter crash, Bravo Team was being spun - up

* * *

To say that Master Chief Jason Hayes was disappointed by their new mission would be the understatement of the century. It had been six long, long months since he'd pumped a baddie full of bullets, and he was itching to get back to it. But, as Mandy Ellis just informed him and the rest of Bravo Team, that wasn't going to be happening. Instead, they were going to be risking life and limb to retrieve another defective air force drone.

Jesus. Another drone. The last time they had to retrieve a damn drone, Clay fell through the floor and was nearly discovered by hostile tangos.

Inwardly, Jason groaned. The U.S. Air Force needed to get their shit together.

"So, what? We're goin' after another airmen toy? Awesome." Sonny griped.

"Hey Spencer," Ray said, half laughing in remembrance. "Try not to fall down another rabbit hole, okay?"

"Boys, listen up!" Lieutenant Commander Eric Blackburn said sharply, cutting off what would've been Clay's retort. All of Bravo Team, with the exception of Jason, who knew the reprimanding was coming, snapped their heads in his direction. "This isn't a laughing matter. You're going to be infiling deep in Al-Qaeda territory."

"Ah, well, at least we're not going in blind this time." Trent said.

Jason agreed. If there was a single silver lining to be found in this mission, it was that Mandy got clearance for the use of ISR;_ their eyes in the sky._ It was ironic (in a macabre sense) that the Navy had never a single issue with any their drones, and yet the Air Force—who specialize in flight—had already lost two in the span of a single year.

It wasn't surprising that Mandy got clearance for the use of ISR. Mandy Ellis got shit done, and she got it done at absolutely any cost. She was a lithe, agile woman—one who stood six foot two in her favorite pair of black heels—with sharp facial features and an unsettlingly intense concentration held deep within the washed-out blue of her eyes. She had the sharp-thinking mind of a SEAL, no doubt: vicious, ambitious, and one-track minded. Jason had no clue where Bravo Team would be without her. Well, actually, he did. They'd be up shit creek without a damn paddle.

CIA Agent Mandy Ellis: _Clever as the Devil and twice as pretty. _

The rest of meeting went by quickly. They all put their heads together, came up with the best infil, retrieval, and exfil plan that they were going to get, Mandy and Lisa Davis closed with a few talking points, and then Lieutenant Commander Eric Blackburn dismissed them.

"Wheels up in four hours, kids." Eric said as Bravo Team began to file out of the Team Room. "Be ready. And Ray?"

Jason stopped in the doorway and glanced backward, over his shoulder, curious as to what Eric was going to say.

"Welcome back. It ain't Bravo Team without you."

Ray smiled and thanked him, and Jason grit his teeth and walked out without another word.

* * *

**A/N:** . . .and end chapter one! Just to avoid any confusion, this spin up _isn't _the one you read about in the prologue/the one where Clay gets injured. It does, however, serve as a catalyst for a certain event. ;) As always, let me know your thoughts, pretty please! I'm not feeling super confident about my characterization, lol.


	3. CHAPTER TWO, PART ONE

**2\. AN ARMY OF GHOSTS. ( **_CHAPTER TWO, PART ONE_** )**

"I hate this damn heat," Petty Officer Sonny Quinn groused, fiddling with the too-tight chin strap on his helmet. "Why is it that we're always gettin' sent to the hottest places on the globe?"

Clay laughed. "Just pretend it's Texas, Sonny—then you'll feel right at home. All the suffocating heat. . . all the dust. . . and the miles of nothingness. . . All we're missing are a few cows."

"Real funny, Ken Doll. Keep waggin' your jaw about Texas and I might have to comment on that lovely Princess Jasmine tattoo sittin' pretty on the back of your hand."

"Just admit that you're jealous, man. Jasmine is Jameelah's favorite princess, which totally implies that I'm her favorite uncle. Not to mention, we made the unilateral decision to not give you any Oreos, so—"

_"Quiet,_ you two!" A sharp voice snapped, cutting the conversation short.

Walking ahead of them, leading Bravo Team into the depths of Syria, was Jason Hayes; He looked backward at Sonny and Clay and said with indignation, "We've still got another three klicks to the target and I'd like to get there sooner rather than later."

Sonny couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. He watched with a heavy heart as Ray trailed behind Jason.

Jason was being a petty, pissy bastard and Ray knew it, and Sonny knew it, and so did the rest of Bravo Team. It made Sonny angry; Ray Perry was just as wounded as Jason's pride, if not more, but it seemed as though Jason only cared about his goddamn ego. Ray didn't deserve the third degree that he was getting. Not by a long shot.

He opened his mouth to speak, to break the tense silence threatening to suffocate all six of them and defend Ray, but Clay nudged his shoulder before he could formulate a single word.

"Remember what I said?" Clay asked. "Give em' space. Don't get involved."

Sonny huffed, though he knew Clay was right. Jason was fuming, _a pit viper poised to strike_, and the last thing that Sonny wanted to do was get bit. As much as he loathed standing by while Ray took the brunt of Jason's venom, he knew that getting in between the two would only inadvertently make things worse.

Hard as it was to do, Sonny knew that he should follow Clay's surprisingly mature advice: _give them space; _give Jason time to lick his wounds and Ray time to earn back the trust of his best friend.

"I know, I know," Sonny said quietly. "Say, why don't you tell me what you and Ms. Stella were squabblin' about to make this damn hike go by quicker?"

Clay shrugged. "Just the same old, same old, Sonny."

"Work?"

"For the most part, yeah." Clay said. "Look, I know that she worries about me, and I'm really sorry that she does because I would never do anything to hurt her, but. . . I don't know, man. It's starting to feel like all that worry is turning into resentment. Lately, trying to start a conversation of any kind with her feels like walking into a minefield. She's just. . . on edge all the damn time. I don't know what to do."

Sonny nodded knowingly. It was always the same old song and dance with Stella Baxter, and her attitude problem didn't surprise him in the least.

"Well, sounds like she's having trouble adjustin' to not getting her way for the first time in her life."

_"Sonny. . ."_ Clay said in warning.

He held his hands up in surrender. "Now, don't get defensive, Clay. Jesus. I'm not saying anything _bad _about her, I'm just sayin'. . . Stella isn't like us, okay? She didn't have to bust her ass to get where she's at—not the way we did, anyhow. Studying in your comfy little dorm room with your sorority sisters on mommy and daddy's dime is a smidge easier than BUD/S, don't you think? And SERE. And airborne operations. I could go on. I'm sure you haven't forgotten how long the SEAL pipeline is. How many of her friends do you think she's buried, huh? Or had bleed to death in her pretty little hands? Stella isn't cut from the same cloth as us. She's from a whole different world. A. . ._ rosier one. _She doesn't understand why we do what we do, or why we love it, and she never will."

Sonny could see the wheels turning in Clay's head as he digested what he'd been told—but he meant every damn word, and he wouldn't apologize for his opinion. Stella Baxter was a lovely girl, truly, _smart as a whip and pretty as a Texan sunset,_ but she wasn't like Naima or Lisa or Alana. She wasn't strong. Life as a Navy wife would swallow her whole. She'd drown, and it'd kill Clay to watch her do so.

Sonny wouldn't stand for that.

"I'll always support you, kid, no matter what, _you know that,_ but I won't lie to you. Stella? She isn't good for you, and she isn't cut out for this life."

Clay sighed. "I don't know. Maybe you're right. We can't keep going on like this. I don't want to lose her. . . I love her more than anything in this world, Sonny, _I do_, but. . ."

His voice took on a desperate edge. "If we're both miserable, then what's the point of dragging this out?"

Sonny reached out and gave Clay's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "When we get back stateside, you should probably have a good long talk with her. Bout' the future and everything. See if she really wants to be in this for the long haul."

"Yeah, you're right. I should."

"Well, whatever you happens, little buddy, I'm here for ya'."

Clay smiled. "Thanks, Sonny. I appreciate it."

They fell into silence, walking side by side and matching each other step for step.

* * *

Petty Officer Lisa Davis was about to vomit her strawberry cream-cheese bagel all over the table. Though, it wouldn't really matter if she did; She couldn't taste anything other than her own snot and the lingering aftertaste of burnt coffee, anyway. Lisa took a slow sip of her ginger ale and focused all of her energy into repressing a violent fit of coughing (which would, no doubt, result in her hacking up a disgusting blob of fluorescent green snot in front of her Lieutenant Commander).

Bronchitis was the work of Satan, truly.

She blew her nose for the umpteenth time that evening and dropped the used tissue onto her lap. The fact that she managed not to dry-heave was no small miracle.

From the other side of the the six foot folding table that TOC was using as their main _very crowded_ base of operations, Mandy asked, "You okay, Lisa?"

Without looking away from the ISR laptop, Lisa nodded and said, "Yeah, I'll live. It's just this damn bronchitis. I wish my antibiotics would hurry up and kick in."

"Unfortunately, that might take a few days," Mandy said sympathetically. "I know we're a couple thousand miles away from any decent doctor's office, but surely we can scrounge up a cough drop for you or something. That cough sounds. . . painful."

"Ugh, _it is,_ but Trent said that cough suppressants are bad for bronchitis if you're coughing up mucus. Apparently, it's important that I hack up all the snot that I'm slowly drowning in."

Mandy grimaced.

"Yeah, I'd much rather have broken ribs," Lisa said. "Or chlamydia."

Much to Lisa's surprise, Mandy laughed.

Mandy was often as serious and no-nonsense as they came, especially when on the job (which she almost always was), and to hear her laugh so carefree and casually was. . . startling, to say the least—though the sound of it was quickly drowned out by another fit of coughing. Lisa hunched over the table, nearly knocking the laptop to the floor, and coughed so hard that she could feel a rattle in the center of her chest. She dry-heaved into her hand twice before spitting a glob of snot into another tissue. Her temples throbbed.

"You know," Mandy said. "You'd probably feel a little better if you took a break. That cough. . . really doesn't sound good. Eric isn't going to care if you take ten minutes to yourself."

Lisa shook her head. "No. I'll take a break when my boys are back home, and not a second before. They've almost arrived at the target location. I've gotta' keep my eyes peeled."

Though she was still tracking Bravo Team's movement on ISR, she could feel Mandy's uncertain gaze on her.

Danny had been wrong about her. Lisa Davis might not be a SEAL, but she was part of Bravo Team, dammit; She was one of them, despite not being in their immediate, gun-fighting circle. And Jason never let her forget that, nor did Sonny or Trent or Brock or Clay. They all worked together in tandem like a well - oiled machine. Lisa would do absolutely anything in her power to keep every last one of them safe. Die, even.

Mandy couldn't understand that, nor would she ever. The thought made Lisa sad, almost. Who in this world had Mandy Ellis' back? Who in this world would die for her? Certainly not anyone at the CIA. And she'd never mentioned any family. Or friends. Or boyfriends. Or, hell, _girlfriends,_ if she swung that way. Mandy was more than a little tight-lipped about her personal life. She rarely gave an inch. . .

The realization that dawned on Lisa was distressing: she got to hold Jameelah when she was just three days old, and she got to help bake homemade apple pie with Alana Hayes while Jason and Trent arm wrestled at the kitchen table, and she set Brock up on about twelve blind dates, but Mandy? Lisa didn't even know Mandy's middle name. Or her hometown. She doubted that anyone within two thousand miles did. Or cared.

She glanced up from ISR and offered Mandy a weak smile. Maybe they could be friends, one day. Girls had to stick together, right?

Mandy smiled back, but said nothing.

Lisa was pleased, anyway. It's a start.

* * *

The quiet set Sonny's teeth on edge. They were walking into a trap. They had to be.

The target location wasn't much more than a squat, rundown little building in the middle of Syria, settled over forty five miles away from the nearest inhabited town. Inside, _supposedly,_ was the downed U.S. Air Force drone. But the situation didn't make a damn lick of sense; The building and surrounding area looked completely deserted. If a few tangos went to the trouble of hiding that godforsaken toy almost fifty miles away from civilization, then why weren't they here now, guarding their treasure?

No, Sonny thought, they're here somewhere. They wouldn't leave such a rare, valuable piece of intel from the Americans unguarded—especially at night. They were lying in wait. They had to be.

_Into the lion's den. . ._

"I don't like this, Jace," Sonny said, coming to a standstill next to Jason. "It's too damn quiet."

Jason remained silent, diligently scanning the area with his night vision goggles. Nothing he saw seemed to pique his interest.

"I don't either," Jason finally said. "Something isn't right. Where are the guards?"

"Could be hiding in the surrounding trees," Ray offered. "It'd be a pretty useless hiding spot during the day, sparse as they are, but at night. . ."

"It's just enough cover," Jason finished. "The perfect place to pick us off one by one."

Though the nature of the conversation was about as dire as they came, Sonny couldn't help but be a little relieved that Jason—for the moment, anyway—had decided to put his pissy attitude away.

"So, what's the plan, boss?" Clay asked.

Jason looked grim as he began to speak._ "Slow is steady. Steady is smooth. Smooth is fast._ We're going to walk, _not run, _to that building over there as quietly as we can. _And I mean quietly. _Don't so much as step on a twig, got it? We have little to no cover out here. We get in, we get out, we go home. Giving our positions away is a death sentence."

"Welp, sounds good to me," Sonny lied. "Any last words, boys?"

It was a bad call, but it was also their _only_ _call._ Sonny knew that Jason didn't have any other options—the tangos made damn sure of that. Said tangos might not be the sharpest tools in the shed, but they were smart to hide the drone out in the open, where they could shoot down anyone who might try to steal it before they got within one hundred feet of the building.

Sonny gut rolled. He had a terrible feeling about this.

"Yeah," Brock said. "Whose gonna' fly my dog back to Virginia Beach if we're all dead? Cerb' can't live in the desert. He needs his joint medication twice a day."

Clay snorted. Unsurprisingly, Jason chastised him for it.

Sonny rolled his eyes._ And the bastard returns. . . _

"Alright," Jason said. "Stay close. Do not, and I mean do not, go off on your own under any circumstance. Right now, we stick together."

And with that, Bravo Team advanced forward. They moved like a pack of wolves through the dark: quick, quiet, and lethal—Clay, their youngest, _just a pup still, _led them forward with Ray at his side while Jason, leader of the pack, brought up the back, making sure no one fell behind. As they moved toward the building, it almost seemed as though things might go according to plan. That wasn't to say that Sonny couldn't feel eyes watching him from the trees, because he could, but. . . Hell, maybe they could make it to the building in one piece before the inevitable firefight broke out, at least.

The firefight never broke out. Not a single bullet was fired. The building detonated without warning, sending a wide column of fire shooting up toward the midnight sky.

Sonny didn't have to have to react. _None of them did._ The explosion hardly registered in mind. One minute he was walking behind Ray, and in the next was being thrown backward by a blast of heat. God, the intensity of the heat. . . His body hit the ground hard, knocking the air from his lungs, and his vision flashed white. He could distantly hear yelling coming from behind him, beside him, _all around him_—and a frantic voice screaming in his comms. . . _Lisa's, _but he couldn't make out her words over the static and the ringing in his ears. Sonny shook his head and forced himself to stand. He wobbled on weak legs, but held his ground.

"Anybody hurt?!" He called out. So much for the quiet.

"A little toasty!" Clay shouted back. "But okay!"

The rest Bravo Team sounded off; Ray, Jason, Trent, and Brock. . . All were alive, thank God. A little worse for wear, but alive. He hoped that no one was burnt too badly by the blast. They were still a few good yards back when the explosion happened.

Predictably, Bravo Team only had a moment of reprieve before the bullets started flying.

* * *

**A/N: **And that's it! Hope it was worth the wait. :) As always, let me know what you angels think and if you've got any questions/suggestions for later chapters/ect ect. This is my first real delve into writing action, so go easy on me lmao. Ooh! And quick side note—I rarely break chapters into two parts, especially this early in the story, but if I didn't this one would end up being over 4K, haha. So! Just bear with me, please—the preview that some of ya'll read will be in part two.


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